Wolfgang brushed a fleck of dust from his cardigan as he stood up. He took his iPad and phone and slipped them into a nondescript neoprene case. One last look in the mirror and he would be ready to go.
He stopped himself, just for a second. He knew he was fussy, particular even. But he wasn’t vain. He studied his face. It was hardly regal, maybe slightly Teutonic? He wasn’t a good-looking man, but he had been taught to hold himself well, and he was always impeccably well mannered. He smiled a half smile and saw that his reflection did the same. Then it adopted its usual earnest, concerned look.
That’s right, Count Wolfgang. When you smile, you may even be considered handsome. He dismissed the thought.
The “Count” bit would have to wait. As for smiling, he’d afford himself that luxury once he’d pieced the Lattice together in a plausible way. Currently, it was just “threads of unbelievable” sewn together by him to make a very unpalatable and threadbare quilt. There you go again—rubbishy metaphors.
In a moment of royal pomposity he’d given his incomplete work a title and afforded it a capital L. Lattice. Yes, I like that. So much better than Matrix, where all he could think of were hundreds of black-suited Mr. Andersons giving Keanu Reeves an unnecessarily hard time.
He looked at his watch. It was just past midday. Come on, Wolfgang, move along.
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
David waited for the members of the Operation Glasshouse team to make their way into his office and find a seat at his small conference table. He expected six of them: Jane—who ran the image analysts; Tim and Justin—who liaised with the Middle Eastern in-country team; Mike—his GCHQ rep; and Sue—who drew and shared information from Defence Intelligence (DI) and linked directly to the Special Forces (SF) when that conduit was open, as it was now. Oh, and Claire. His PA, who sat to one side and took a record of the decisions made at the meeting. It was a hastily pulled-together, bespoke team with a simple mandate: find the SRR three.
He looked up at the clock. It was five thirty, the lowering sun throwing autumn shadows across the room.
Time to kick off.
“OK everyone, quiet down. First, Jane, anything on the news—anywhere?”
“Nothing, David. Not a squeak. It’s been”—she looked at her watch—“almost forty hours since the incident and nothing on the airways.” She raised her shoulders in mock defeat.
“This is the biggest media event Daesh—hang on . . .” He had been looking directly at Jane, but now, with wide arms, he addressed the whole team. “Does anyone know if the attack is attributed to Daesh or Al-Qaeda? Anyone?”
The team collectively shook their heads.
“Mike—nothing from GCHQ?”
Mike looked at his tablet and then back at David. “Nothing from SIGINT we wouldn’t expect from the region at this time.”
“So, the first time we will know who carried out the attack is when they go live on Al Jazeera?—Jane?”
“That looks like it might be the case, David, yes. Sorry.” She raised her shoulders again. Everything was getting the better of her today.
It all made him feel incredibly impatient. Those on the Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) were advising the Cabinet Office Briefing Room (COBR) not to go public with the details of the attack until they knew more than what they knew now. Which wouldn’t be difficult, as what they knew now was almost nothing.
It seemed like madness to him to wait for the terrorists to go live, then have the intelligence community comment, all “unknowing and apologetic.” They would appear wholly inept. Better to beat the bastards to the front page. Admit that three of the very best soldiers, who had been working beyond the front line to safeguard the country, were now either dead or taken by an as yet unknown terrorist organisation. He had made his point at the last COBR meeting, but was beaten down. With only weeks left on the job, he almost felt up to a discreet leak to a broadsheet. But then again, he really did value his pension.
“OK. Around the room. Anything to add to your reports? Jane?”
“Working only from old photos and her knowledge of the area, Sam Green has identified three locations in Yemen and two in Saudi where we might want to start looking.”
“Have you shared those with Tim and Justin?” David knew that his impatience was getting the better of his judgement at that point. Of course Jane would share her intelligence with the members of the team who could then direct agents in the country. He regretted it as soon as he said it.
“Yes, David, about an hour ago.” Jane looked across at Tim and Justin. She hadn’t flinched at his unnecessary question. Bless her.
“Yes, we have that.” Tim led. “Two of the three Yemen locations are urban, and we think we can get eyes on with some locals within the next forty-eight hours. Our Sana’a team has the instructions already. The third is trickier. It’s a village location at Hajjah, in the midwest of Yemen and reasonably inaccessible.”
David interrupted. “What’s the rationale behind that choice, Jane?”
“Sam, and Frank and I agree, has this location as Ali Abdullah Sahef’s headquarters. He’s the deputy of Daesh in Yemen. It’s a good choice to start looking, if we can get someone up there.”
“And can we?” David put the question to the whole group.
Justin half raised his hand. “Not quickly, and not without risk to the agent/informer who might be tasked by our in-country team. I have posed the question, but I reckon we might be days away from anything concrete.”
“What about satellite photography and signals intercept?”
Jane led. “I’ve arranged a call to my oppo in Langley for an hour’s time. We’ll get what we can. They, as I said in my report, have nothing on the attack, or where the three have been taken.”
“Mike? GCHQ?”
Mike shuffled in his seat.
“I’ve passed the details of the Yemeni locations to the Doughnut, and they are currently tasking Cyprus to see if they can pick up anything. They have the Saudi locations as well.” Mike kept his hands still; when finished speaking, he looked back down at his laptop.
“And, Sue, where are we with the Saudis?”
“DI is now liaising with the Defence Attaché in Riyadh. They reckon the Saudis should be able to get eyes on their two locations within thirty-six hours. It will probably be more of a blunt weapon, but it will be thorough. I’ve also spoken to our man in the embassy who will expedite things.” SIS had to task Saudi forces through Defence Intelligence, although they had people on the top floor of the embassy who would always oil the wheels.
“Good.” David looked down at his notes. “So, if I can summarise. We have three members of the SRR either dead or in captivity, held by either Al-Qaeda or Daesh. The three could be in Yemen or in Saudi. Or, by now, anywhere in the Middle East. And we are currently investigating five possible locations on the hunch of two junior analysts. We have nothing”—he looked up at all of them—“nothing new to add to the sum of all knowledge. And I reckon within twenty-four hours we are going to be the laughingstock of the world’s intelligence communities because we will have no coherent response to a news clip showing our three lads in either crates or orange jumpsuits.” He paused for effect.
“And, just to show you that I’m just as clueless as you are, I can tell you that officials at the CIA have nothing on the two Americans in the training camp: Bell and Manning. But, if I judged the tone of the telephone conversation correctly, they are very embarrassed by the pair of them. Especially as one of them was meant to be dead. Which he clearly isn’t.” He closed his tablet and gathered his papers. “It does mean that they are as keen to get to the bottom of this as we are. So that’s at least one positive.”
He paused again, looking round.
“Anything else to add?”
Nothing from the team.
“OK, let’s meet again tomorrow morning at”—he looked across at Claire—“ten?” She nodded.
As they rose to leave, David motioned for Jane to
stay behind.
He led her over to his desk.
“What do we think about Sam Green’s work so far?”
Jane didn’t reply straight away—she seemed to be lost in thought for a second.
“I think the five locations are inspired choices, myself. I’d forgotten about one of the urban Yemeni ones. Sam remembered it from a couple of photos taken of a Daesh truck driving into the compound in the capital Sana’a. She was alerted by a particular image showing a man opening a pair of high wooden gates. She saw that the man carried an AK-47—whilst the rifle wasn’t particularly unusual, it was fitted with a newish Russian sight.”
Jane had put down her laptop on David’s desk and was scrolling through a series of photos to find one to show David. “She’d seen the same weapon in the hands of possibly the same man—he was hooded so she couldn’t be sure—in the background of a Daesh propaganda video released a few weeks later. The talking head on the video was Ali Abdullah Sahef. She made the connection between the rifle, the man, the location, and Sahef, then declared it a Daesh safe house.”
“I see. Why haven’t we targeted the safe house with more assets before now?”
“We tried, but our people were stretched on other tasks.”
David nodded. “OK, good call by Sam. And is she holding up?” More aimed at gauging effectiveness rather than sympathy.
“Does she ever hold up—completely?” Jane’s question was almost rhetorical.
“Good point.”
David sighed. He reckoned it was just eleven weeks now, and then all this would be someone else’s problem.
Abondance Village, Abondance Valley, French Alps
Sam had tucked Bertie away in the corner of a very large car park just a short distance from the centre of the town. She’d arrived as it was getting dark and was following her Internet directions to the French “Aire,” a stopover exclusively assigned for “les Camping Cars.” France has as much an affection for campers and motorhomes as the British despise them. As a result, almost every town in France has an Aire. Good news for people like Sam.
When Sam arrived she was met with a village-size circus of media vans from what looked like every country known to man. The Aire was overflowing with TV crews, satellite dishes, and makeshift accommodation. Thankfully, the French gendarmerie had the sense to provide traffic police and, after questioning in poor English, and replying in unremarkable French, Sam had established herself as a relative and was shown to a spot out of the way of the media.
She’d left Bertie between two other larger motorhomes—what are they doing here?—and headed for the centre of the town. As she’d turned the corner, around one of many beautifully old, wooden chalets, she had to shield her eyes from a concentration of bright light illuminating a patch on the far side of the valley. She’d squinted her eyes and made out numerous powerful arc lights on tall towers, spotlighting a football-pitch-size blackened piece of earth about a kilometre away. Sticking out of the singed earth, she picked out segments of shiny metal and, in among the shards, little men in bright yellow jackets poking around.
The sight stopped Sam in her tracks. Mesmerised by it all, she felt her stomach start to churn as her mind ran over how she saw the last moments of Flight FY378. The last seconds of Uncle Pete’s life. Retching, she had raised her hand to her mouth and dashed back around the corner of the chalet, throwing up in the shadows. That had been enough for last night.
This morning she felt slightly calmer. As she walked back through the media village to the main street, she tiptoed carefully over numerous thick black wires, as if she were attempting to escape a darkened snake pit. She avoided getting caught on camera, ducking out of the line of sight as a news crew reported its latest update to a station far away. As she weaved, she chomped at some biscuits she had brought with her—she had no appetite, but she knew she’d have to find something to eat later.
When it seemed that there were no more obstacles in her way, she looked down at what she was wearing: faded jeans, Dr. Martens, and an off-red Lowe Alpine fleece over a black Status Quo T-shirt. She was hardly dressed funereally, but everything was clean. She’d even managed to wash her hair in Bertie’s basin this morning. It was still a mess though—it was ever thus. In any case, Uncle Pete would be pleased that she’d bothered to come.
As she turned the dreaded corner, the blight on the landscape looked less stark, less unpleasant. In daylight she noticed that the site was cordoned off with blue and white police tape, which fluttered in the distance in harmony with a light wind, its movement catching her eye. She looked to her right and gave the main street a once-over, picking out a wooden-clad pizza joint in the near distance, just on the other side of a ski-hire shop. That would do for lunch—if her stomach were up to it. Nothing was appetising at the moment.
She was surprised at how unbusy the main street was. She’d expected it to be heaving with a mass of relatives, press, and, even this early on, “disaster tourists.” Yes, it was busy, but not overly so.
Looking back to the crash site, Sam stopped and took stock. Where now? And why? It occurred to her that she had no plan. She knew that she had to come to see where Uncle Pete had died, but she had no idea what to do when she got here.
So, she had seen it. Could she go home now?
Not yet. There was something driving her on. Something that pushed her closer to the impact point. She knew she wouldn’t discover any rationale here, no sense behind the disaster. Not now. Maybe later, when she got a chance to read any crash report that might be released to the public. At least then she’d be able to picture the scene in the context of the why behind the crash. In order to be able to do that, she wanted to get as close as she was allowed.
Absently, she attempted to cross the main street, but stopped herself just as an ambulance drove past, heading down the valley. No siren, but blue lights flashing. Off to the morgue?
On her second attempt, she crossed the road without being hit by a passing truck and made her way up a narrow, steep tarmac path that seemed to be leading to the blackened area of earth. She passed another gendarme, who was manning a barrier preventing vehicles from using the road. He didn’t attempt to stop her. There were one or two official-looking people heading up and down the road wearing high-viz jackets and carrying safety helmets. And a number of nonofficials joining a small ant-line of people made their way to and from the crash site.
There was a commotion behind her. She turned and looked. It was a press team with camera and boom mike trying to get closer. The gendarme was holding firm. As all French police wore Kevlar vests and carried pistols, Sam knew who would win that battle. She allowed herself a little smile. Inwardly. Uncle Pete would be pleased that everyone was making such a fuss.
Just ahead was another small checkpoint, this time manned by the obligatory gendarme plus a man and a woman in nonsecurity uniform—grey suits with yellow shirts and blouses. Airline staff?
She stopped in line. There was a group of three ahead of her—a man, a woman, and a teenage girl. The girl turned to look at Sam. She seemed tired and red-eyed, no hint of a smile. Sam raised her hand a touch, an acknowledgement that she was a human being and capable of communication. The girl nodded in recognition and turned away. Her mum and dad were having an in-depth and slightly impassioned conversation with the airline staff, as they pored over a clipboard. Eventually, in what Sam thought was probably Italian, they agreed to something from the list. The female airline member of staff wore her most regretful face. She half curtseyed—what is that about?—as she pointed behind her, where Sam had noticed a piece of ground, fenced off with more police tape. It looked like a holding or viewing area. There were seven or eight people already there, and Sam thought there were possibly a couple more in a smart white tent, which was set off to one side.
Relatives’ hospitality. Nice touch. Uncle Pete liked his pain au chocolat.
It was Sam’s turn now. The gendarme stood back. She was greeted by the woman. Her face was immaculately
made up, and she was impeccably dressed. And she was wearing an overly sincere face that immediately put Sam on edge.
“Bonjour. Vous êtes Français?”
“Non, madame. Anglais.” Sam affected her best guttural French. She could get by with the language in a tight spot, but she needed to work harder. She should have thought about that when she was messing about in Miss Kelly’s lessons.
“Ah, that’s fine.” No accent. Sam couldn’t tell if the woman was French or English. Or any other nationality. That’s annoyingly clever.
The woman now wore an obsequious smile. Her makeup didn’t crack. Her teeth were too perfect. She managed to convey sympathy and efficiency all at the same time.
Smartarse.
“Are you a relative?”
No, I’m on holiday. Where’s the nearest bar?
“Yes. I am the niece of Peter Green. He was on the flight.”
“One second, please.” The woman scrolled down the list with her finger, expertly turned the page, and ran down the list again. Sam looked at the man. He gave her a smile and imperceptibly nodded his head.
“Ah. There we are. Can I take your name, please, and a telephone number?”
Although irritated by the mannequin, Sam obliged.
“The relatives are all gathering over there to the left,” she was pointing again. “Please help yourself to coffee, soft drinks, and some pastries.” She paused. Sam thought the woman was studying her, waiting for an emotional response—on hand if she were to break down? That wasn’t going to happen here. Not in front of Barbie the air hostess and her sidekick, Ken, the gay steward.
“Do you have any questions?”
Other than who’s your dentist?
Sam dismissed the quip and thought for a moment.
“Do we know why the plane crashed?” It was a simple enough question.
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t.”
That is, your company might, but they’ve not told the airheads. Never mind.
Sam nodded and walked on through the checkpoint into the relatives’ voyeuristic area. Despite her initial deliberations, she was already regretting making it this far and wished she’d stayed at the bottom and chatted to Uncle Pete from afar. He’d have understood. But, as there was free coffee and the chance to celebrate Uncle Pete’s life with a croissant, she’d get on with it.
Fuelling the Fire Page 8